


Tactile

by Kato



Series: Contact [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: AU Post-Ep, Castle: Season 4, Denial, F/M, First Time, Light D/s, Post 47 Seconds, Post-Ep: 4x19, Sequel, sensory play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kato/pseuds/Kato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to 'Contact.'] "She lets his coat fall." Castle makes good on his promises during a weekend away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The energy crackles between them like frayed wire ends as they stand either side of her doorway, the world between them shrunk from 3,000 miles to just this, an invisible threshold between lies and truth; friends and lovers; behind and forward; past and future.

She lets his coat fall. Exposing her bareness, the bony points of her collar and shoulders to the soft curve of her breasts, the peaks of her cafe au lait nipples, the expanses of her abdomen, and below. She remains immodestly indifferent that her door is still open and anyone could walk by. Anyone could look; she doesn’t care. She’d still only see the pair of eyes in front of her. Kate tracks him with no small amount of self-consciousness, watches breathless and bound by invisible manacles as his eyes widen, black bombs edging out his navy irises fraction by fraction as he stares. Just stares.

At first, she thinks he's staring at her breasts. But he's not. He's staring precisely at what's between them, awe and fear and desolation and joy at the evidence before him, the punctuation mark between life and death.

Like willing prey, her whole body freezes in the blinding headlights of his gaze, allows him his hungry perusal when at last he moves on from the healing on her chest to rove over the rest of her. And he is unashamed, his tongue darting out to lick his lips and savor the sight of her.

Reaching out to touch him, to make sure he’s real and here, she pulls back as if burned when he stops her. Their skin makes contact, rough and weathered hands unbecoming of a writer catching her pale, thin wrist and halting her approach. She stills.

“Not yet,” he states calmly, a hint of something lush and dark and playful in his voice just as the night before, something she yearns to explore. Making no further attempt to advance them, she waits, and it feels strange and strangely right to allow him this.

“Are you ready?” Castle asks, folded layer questions small and boyish behind his simple words.

“Yes,” she reassures him, answering the more urgent question first. “But not yet,” she echoes, voice hardly a whisper, as if speaking at normal volume would break their spell and send the whole wonderful dream spiralling back down to reality. Going shy, Kate bites her lip and hears his breath hitch. “I thought you'd like to help.”

Castle crosses into the apartment at last, whirling them around with a single step that speaks to Martha's insistence he learn the finer points of dancing, flashing her back and bare skin to the hallway momentarily before he kicks to door shut.

“Show me.”

For the first-not-last time, she leads him to her bedroom. The closet door hangs open, ready for his and her perusal. It was a gamble, but the sensual smirk warming onto his nervous features says it's paid off.

“Since I don't know where we're going...” trailing off as his free fingers reach out and card through the section housing her coats, the way he must have carelessly run his fingers through the colorful costumes behind the stage as a small child. He's tactile, he always has been. He touches things. He touches her things now, reverent and respectful yet barely containing his irrepressible enthusiasm.

“You won't need much,” he says at last. She grins lecherously. “Katherine Beckett!” Castle teases, as if he doesn't know as well as she does that wherever he's taking her, she's likely to spend a considerable amount of the next two days in a state of undress. But he's nothing if not respectful, and uncertain of just how far she wants to take this game, he waits for her to set a precedent.

At last she does, holding up two sundresses, one red and cream and the other solid white, intending to put her detective skills to use since he seems in no mood to tell her where they're headed yet. Sundress equals beach, equals Hamptons. He shakes his head, and she pushes that possibility to the back burner. Okay. Not the beach. Moving on to another section as best the leash of his hand around her wrist will allow, she pulls a light turtleneck from her collection. He approves. In it goes to the small suitcase laid open on her floor. A few soft sweaters, a pair of jeans, a sweater-dress, and two scarves follow quickly. Emboldened now, Castle throws a particularly shapely pair of thigh-high leather boots next to the suitcase, and then her ratty Converse besides. He explains nothing, and they move on.

Castle locates the built-in chest containing her underwear and peruses it freely, carding through lace and silk and lingering a particularly long time over a leather-trimmed lace thong and bra set he's found. But to her surprise, he closes the drawers without putting anything in her pack.

“Choose, Kate,” he says softly, dropping her wrist in favor of carding his warmed fingers through her tousled hair. Instantly, she leans up into his touch, arching like a pleased and purring cat, and shudders with pleasure when his stubby fingernails make featherling contact with her scalp. She likes his touch. She does. “Do you want to take a bath, or get dressed?”

Two roads, and each could make all the difference, or none at all. She's not afraid of either. He won't lead her asunder. It's a matter of time, and besides already having taken a quick shower prior to his arrival, she's nearly twitching with anticipation to see what he has in mind for her, so she decides with a firm nod to him and herself.

“Dress.”

His lips curl, secretive and so, so knowing. “Alright.”

Reopening her lingerie drawer and letting his hand drop from her hair at last – she breathes a sigh of regret at the loss – he pauses again over the leather-trimmed set. She thinks she knows what he'll do, but as soon as she does, he surprises her again, passing over it in favor of a pair of navy lace panties and matching bra. They're attractive, certainly, but nothing special. When she moves to take them from him, he snatches the garments back, teasing smile playing on his face.

“No,” he scolds lightly. “I don't think so.”

With that, Castle runs the back of his hand up the inside of her arm, pressure just enough to tell her to raise it. She does so without thinking and delights in the prickle of gooseflesh that appears, spreading as a diffusion of desire from her arm to the rest of her body. Slipping the strap of the lacy balconet bra he's selected for her up and resting it at her shoulder with a lingering touch to her collarbone, he quickly repeats the process with the other side.

She's done clumsy strip-teases before – even once with only herself as a laughing audience, Aerosmith blasting on her speakers – and let a lover undress her once or twice, but this game is new and beautifully frightening. The irony that Castle's spent four years making undisguised references to seeing her naked is not lost on her at all, now that he's putting clothing back on her untouched body, and the hell if it isn't the hottest thing she's ever experienced.

Flush spreads across her chest, blooming in stark contrast to her creamy skin and the dark material covering her now when he slinks behind her, the coarse palms of both hands bracing against the small of her back. Vulnerable places, he'd said. She doesn't mind his touch. It is new and old at once; both exciting and infinitely safe. It's Castle. He's touched her vulnerabilities before, since the very day they met. Before, in fact, though he still doesn't know how much and she almost bursts to tell him now, but it can wait. The insistent slide of his lover's palm up her back and around her shoulders tell her that now is not that time.

With only-slightly shaking hands, he rests his hands over her. His breath hitches and quickens just slightly, and it's the only outward indication of the effect she feels she's having on him as the seconds tick by and his hands rove her bare and bone-rounded shoulders, thumbs tracing regenerative circles over her back before he gathers her hair to one side, exposing her neck to him. She whimpers. She hates being touched here, usually, but she can't wait for it now.

His lips spark her skin, first kiss – first _real_ kiss – pressed as promised to the knob of her vertebrae. She sighs, hopelessly turned on already, and he responds with a low groan that reverberates through her. He has to bend to kiss the curves and juts and knobs of her spine, until at last he sinks to his knees, one hand curling around her waist – still holding her panties and absently rubbing them against her skin – and the other's whirled fingertips sealing the heartstains his lips leave once they move on.

She's exposed to his view fully, and it should be more nerve-wracking. Instead, she just feels free. He'll do what he wants, what they talked about and what was only implied by his natural command and her willing following of it the night before. She can trust him. More than anyone, she can trust him. How she forgot that, in the aftermath of her shooting... But it doesn't matter, now. He'll do nothing to harm her, nothing outside of her best interests. Push, maybe. Challenge, certainly. But never hurt.

She loves him.

“God, Kate,” he whispers reverently as he reaches the small of her back, the final kissable bone flanked by dimples on either side. He kisses it, and kisses the divots, and kisses her the very exact spot he touched so many weeks prior, the day they faced down a tiger together and almost lost. She shivers with remembrance, with a hint of regret that she didn't ask him home then and there. But then, they wouldn't have had this. Whatever he's doing, whatever he has planned, this is not frantic frustrated fucking after nearly being eaten alive. And for that, she is grateful, in spite of all the pain it's taken to get here. Or perhaps because of it.

He hooks her bra closed, runs his hand up the ridge of her leg, bending it at the knee and slipping her panties on. First one leg, then the other. He pauses when they're halfway up her legs. The back of his big fingers drag briefly and shockingly between her legs.

They come away wet.

A pained groan escapes him, answered by a sharp inhale of her own, stab of want radiating from her center.

But he provides her no relief, nor any to himself, and instead covers her fully, only then standing and facing her again. He regards her with wonder, like he can't believe she's letting him do this. She can't believe it either – that he's so patient, so restrained and wild at the same time; that he's doing this with her; that she almost lost this – and it's all a bit much. The writer sees it before she knows what's happening, and then he's there, soaking up the scattering of salty droplets that have made their way onto her cheekbones. And then he explores some more.

The ridge of her eyebrows, kiss. Her temples, a brush of his day-unshaven cheek that makes her let out an unattractive bark of a laugh that's half humour and half sob. The apples of her cheeks get special attention. So too does the line of her jaw, the exposed expanse of her neck, the hollow of her throat.

With a ragged sigh, he pulls back, leaving both struggling for breath and control. His thorough worship, and her deference to his whim, is the furthest thing from expected, but it works. Dear god, does it work. Stepping back further, he peruses her closet again, and in his walk and the outline of him in his jeans, visual evidence of his arousal persists. He ignores it dutifully as she squirms with her own desire, resisting the urge to rub her legs together to seek some kind of relief. That's not the game they're playing right now.

In quick succession, he pulls her a black button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. Nothing outside the ordinary for her. Kate is surprised by his choice. She has racier pieces. Surely he's seen them. Raising an eyebrow, she gives him a quizzical tilt of her head, a language he understands easily after their years together.

“I like unwrapping my presents,” Castle intones delicately, marvel and play laced one around the other as he drags the rough of her jeans up her legs. “It's no fun if there's no wrapping, no mystery.”

He's spent the better part of an hour staring at her bare body, tending to it and dressing it, and his explanation should be ridiculous, but as he wraps her in her in the soft linen of her shirt and carefully buttons it up, she hasn't the mind to dispute. She just leans into his touch, the warmth of his palm over the comfort of the garment.

Tucking it in, he selects her favorite belt – of course he'd know that, too – and a pair of socks, pulling them on, followed quickly by the thigh-high boots he'd selected earlier. She steps into one gracefully, and he braces her to make up for the 3” difference as he slides on the other, zipping both up with a grin up at her that makes her gooey and hot inside, willing all this work of his away if it meant she could feel him where she wants. But he just covers her with another layer instead, shrugging a warm wool coat onto her – is it that cold out, or is it cold where they're headed? - and topping it all off with a with the warmth of a scarf, navy blue and black and grey threaded impossibly softly together.

She hums with impatience and contentment both. She'll have him, and soon. The question is when, not if. It's driving her good-crazy and the impish quirk of his mouth and the sparkle in his darkened eyes says he's not even close to done. She can't wait. But she will.

“Are you ready?” he asks again at last, zipping up her suitcase.

“Always.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

They’re not on the road fifteen minutes – hardly out of the neighborhood, in the noontime traffic – before he stops. Promising coffee and scurrying out of the cool comfort of the Ferrari into the light rain, he leaves her alone with her thoughts.

Kate busies herself with the mirror, checking her light makeup. Not too bad. Slightly smudged, but in a way that just makes her eyes sexy-smoky rather than like she’s just been broken up with. A chuckle escapes her. How easily that could have been her fate, if she hadn’t called. If he hadn’t heard her out. If they hadn’t finally – _finally –_ after four years, gotten something right with this communication thing. She grins at her own image and it’s like looking at a new person.

“You're not getting out of this,” she informs her reflection, as if she'd even want to. “This is your last first time.”

It feels like the first-first time, pale and nervous. It feels like they've been doing this forever, too. Maybe they have. Physical contact, after all, is but one component of a relationship. They've laughed and fought, broken up and come back to each other. She's built up walls and he's torn them down. They've worked through problems and felt the stinging consequences of what happens when they don't. They've loved and hated each other in turn.

It's more than time.

She's played a hundred scenarios of how this might go, and she's not short on imagination, though hers could never compare to that of her partner. But none of the possibilities have ever come close to this. She always thought – realistically, or as realistically as fantasies about sex with one's favorite-author-turned-police-partner - that someday, the dam would simply break and they'd wind up tearing clothing off, fucking on a floor or a couch or wherever they fell, too far gone for sweetness and exploration. She'd fantasized about him making love to her slowly and gently, or her surprising him at the loft and giving him permission to indulge in to what they've both wanted for years, or of things coming to a head during a case and of him pushing her against the nearest surface, rough and fast before anyone discovered them. Or more shamefully, of him simply taking her when he couldn't stand it any more, ready or not.

Nothing prepared her for this. It's the last thing she expected. His patience. His gentle control of the situation. Her willingness to allow it – her _need_ for it – and how natural it feels. The time he's taking, the slow buildup that she just knows at some point is going to ignite into an inferno that'll burn and burn until it leaves them both in ashes, only to be rearranged in their new forms. It's the only thing she wants.

He returns, shaking his dampened hair at her like a shaggy dog and she shrieks with pretend outrage, laughing brightly at the absurdity of it all when he hands her a scone and a coffee. Taking it gratefully with a smile of undisguised adoration, she clings to it like it's precious. It is. She's known for a long time that coffee from Castle is 'I love you' in a cup, but he doesn't even have to hide it any more. Wears it on his sleeve and it's beautiful and bright and full of forever.

“Thank you,” she hums, a noise of satisfaction following as the liquid slides smoothly and sensuously down her throat, warming her from the inside.

Castle nods, looking barely restrained suddenly, until he manages to shake it off. He maneuvers his fine machine back onto the road, and Kate presses her cheek to the window, enjoying the coolness and the way her breath fogs up the glass, contrasted with the warmth of the cup and the coffee, the current still flowing readily between them. Nothing prepared her for the way he could make her experience much, with so little. Say so much in such conservation of words, since he got back. Do so much, with so little touch. The current flows between them now, just as strongly as when his mouth and hands were over her in her home, and he's not even close to touching her.

She thinks maybe it's time to change that.

Testing her boundaries, Kate slips her hand across the small console, resting it over his knee. He doesn't take his eyes off the road, and she doesn't take her eyes off of him. It's enough to notice with great satisfaction the bob of his Adam’s apple, the thick swallow he gives.

He grunts his dissatisfaction long minutes later when she removes it, but glares petulantly when she replaces her touch, only to move it higher- higher- higher. It might annoy her or even offend her if she didn't know him so well, know that he most definitely does want her to touch him. But he has his reasons. Namely, focusing on the road. He moves her wandering digits back to his knee and says nothing about it. He doesn't need to. When her arm tires of the awkward position, she shifts around, turning her back to him and leaning against his shoulder over the console. Turning his head for just a moment, he presses a chaste kiss to her temple before returning his attention to weaving in and out of Manhattan traffic.

They're headed away from the L.I.E., due north, in fact, which confirms her earlier deductions: no Hamptons. Instead, they head into the heart of midtown traffic, stalling for near twenty minutes in it. She doesn't mind. It gives her a moment to breathe, to collect herself and her spinning thoughts.

“Not to put a damper on the mood,” Castle speaks, out of the blue, “but what are we going to do when the weekend's over?”

She hasn't thought much about it. For some reason, she just doesn't care.

“Hmm,” she makes an impassive noise and thinks aloud. “Dunno. You've been a good boy lately,” Kate teases. “Gates isn't going to kick you out, not with the solve rates we have, and not with me and Ryan and Espo got your back. Unless one of us gets in serious trouble, worst she can do is tug on her chain and bark. Since you're not _legally -”_ she stresses _legally_ , because it's nearly the only distinction any more “- a cop, and you're not media, there's no rule against us being together.”

“Well,” the writer states succinctly, “alright.” His cheek nuzzles the top of her head, and she’s certain they will be just that: alright.

The Ferrari and susurration of the downpour outside it pick up speed once outside the city limits. He follows the Hudson river up through the valley, into New Jersey, and back to New York again, meandering through back roads he knows apparently quite well and weaving in and out of increasingly smaller towns and into increasingly darker woods. Her curiosity grows.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Castle replies, a hint of his normal childishness coming through. “Nope.”

She’s about to protest when her phone buzzes from her back pocket. Sitting up from how she’s spent the last hour, slouched against her partner’s shoulder, she checks the ID.

‘Lanie.’ Shit. Wait… if they had a body that just couldn’t wait, it’d be Gates calling her, right?

“Hey, Lanie,” she answers with trepidation, registering the tense line of Castle’s jaw and the way he slows the car in favor of paying attention to the conversation.

“Hey girl,” the M.E.’s voice echoes into her phone, and reception’s poor but she can make it out well enough to guess that it’s a social call rather than a work summons, going by her friend’s tone. “You ready to stop moping about Writer Boy and have some fun?”

Castle’s face cracks into a wide grin and she groans. She’s not going to hear the end of this. He mouths ‘moping?’ at her with an expression of the cat playing with the canary and she chucks the balled-up piece of paper from her scone at his head.

“I, ah,” she scrambles for a convenient excuse. They’ve agreed – she thinks – to not hide their relationship once back at work, but she doesn’t want the third degree from Lanie right now, either. Or for the rumor mill to start up while they’re away. Best to control information, and a look in Castle’s direction says he’s thinking the same thing. “I can’t. I’m away. Spa weekend.”

Spa weekend? Where the hell did that come from?

It does not fool Lanie at all. In fact, it simply makes her more suspicious.

“Kate, I’ve been tryin’ to get you to a spa for five years. God knows you need a little relaxation, but nooooo, you _hate_ them. Where are you? Are you in trouble?”

In hindsight, her telling Lanie that she was at a spa was akin to Castle telling his mother he loved her over the phone while being held hostage by a deranged serial killer. It’s set off alarm bells and at the very least she’s going to mention it to Esposito, who will tell Ryan, who will tell the whole precinct, who will send out a search party if she does not play her next and final card right. She takes a deep breath.

“No, no. I’m alright. You got me. I’m just in the car with my _very_ handsome, _very_ charming new boyfriend on the road to a grand getaway where we’re going to spend the next two days in and out of bed fucking each others' brains out,” she deadpans, in a tone that shocks even her for how utterly blasé it is.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line and Beckett holds her breath, waiting to see if her bold plan has worked. She can’t chance a look at Castle, but the car has slowed to a crawl and she feels his stare. At last, Lanie heaves a melodramatic and disgusted sigh.

“Fine, Kate. If you want to waste your long weekend off holed up in your apartment watching Temptation Lane and pining after Castle again, and wondering why he’s pulling back, far be it from me to stop you. But he ain’t gonna wait forever.”

“Duly noted,” she replies blandly, “see you Tuesday.” The M.E. hangs up first without so much as a goodbye.

He stares at her then, long moments of assessment and shock and a hint of pride.

“Katherine Beckett, I never,” he mumbles at last.

Castle guns the car unexpectedly, the jerk of the Ferrari’s powerful engine causing her breath to hitch. His teeth are clenched and she cannot pin his mood. Angry? Nervous?

Fixing her with an intense glare, his eyes burn blue-flame hot, and she then knows she's misjudged him. The signs of his slipping control are all there. The thick swallow at his throat. The way he shifts uncomfortably in the driver's seat. His hands.

Oh, his hands. She knows his hands very well, she realizes. He speaks with them, whether excited or scared or curious or passionate. He touches things. They flex, stretching and closing again, over the smooth leather of the steering wheel in an absent tempo, an unconscious action she's seen a few times before, when he's trying to calm himself. Her heart thumps more quickly.

“Alright there, Castle?” comes her sultry taunt, a blow to his already eroded control.

“Quiet. I need to focus on the road. You make me crash this thing and our weekend of – what were your words, again? -” he says this ever-so casually, as if he has any trouble remembering, “-fucking each others' brains out? - might be very inconveniently interrupted. Wouldn't want that to put a damper on things.”

“Concerned for my safety? I'm touched.”

Castle regards her with a scorching look that bypasses her brain and settles straight between her legs. He blinks slowly, boring into her.

“Not yet.”

A soft noise of frustration and want escapes her, the relaxation of the drive ebbing away, only to be replaced by need and heat. He chuckles. Bastard.

“Soon,” he amends. “We're nearly there.”

He makes a sharp turn onto a narrow road carved into a sheer craggy hillside. Judging by the amount of time they've been on the road – and they've made good time, due to light traffic outside the city and the easy speed of the car – she thinks they must be somewhere in the Catskills. He's not mentioned ever having spent time up here, but he knows where he's going, so he must have. Turning onto a sinuous road that slinks higher into the clouds and deeper into the forest, he slows, the fog growing thicker and the road growing thinner up here.

“Not far now, love,” he soothes as she squirms in her seat. The endearment slips from him and he tenses, his hands still and gripping the steering wheel, as if waiting for her to laugh at him or spook like a frightened animal. She shakes her head in affection, wrapping her small fingers around his forearm, squeezing in reassurance.

Pulling onto a gravel drive, tunneled with winterbare skeleton trees and scattered patches of unmelted snow, Castle's final turn reveals a modest structure, bold in its design and small in its footprint. A concrete box with floor-to-ceiling windows, and little else, surrounded by the forest.

“Castle, is this-”

“Mine. My sanctuary, you could say,” he finishes with a shy smile. “I don't get up here much, but it's the only thing I've ever had that's just mine.”

She doesn't know what to say. It's... beautiful, in a strange way. Stark and utilitarian, but blended perfectly with the wild nature that envelops it, embraces it as a brother. He kills the engine and they sit in silence, the rain that started as a shower in New York now a frigid deluge falling in sheets around them.

“Ready?” he asks, for the second time that day. Her response is the same.

“Always.”

Castle gets out first, hurrying around to her side and ripping the door open with the force only a desperate man would use on a Ferrari, instantly shielding her with his coat – fuck – and laughing deliriously.

“Run!” he shouts and points to the front door, and she does, almost slipping several times in the slosh. Castle fishes around the boot of his car for a long moment, at last emerging with her suitcase and his own black backpack, making a mad dash for where she's found shelter under the tin overhang above the door.

His hands seize her round the waist, twirling her to face him, his grin as wide as her own must be. For the first time in over a year, his lips crash into hers, frantic and full and _finally._ Her eyes slide closed in relief, happiness, desire. There's no more seeking of permission. Years – _years_ – of waiting, wanting, fuse between them, and he pushes her back into the galvanized steel door, his sweet exploration of earlier replaced by urgent possession, passion, love.

Fumbling blindly with the key, he can't be bothered to take his mouth from hers. He shoves his thigh between her legs, bringing her hips into contact with his, and even through their multiple layers of clothing she can feel him. Kate grabs the key from him and breaks the kiss momentarily, too long for his liking because all his attention goes straight to her hips, pulling them back to him, letting her feel the curve of him press to her ass and that is _not_ helping her focus on the task at hand, and the rain's blowing sideways and soaking them both. Not that she's not already soaked.

The door flies open at last and she nearly falls through it, but Castle is quicker, catching her and picking her up with ease, as if she were no more than a ragdoll. He steps over the threshold and resumes kissing her again, his chest heaving against her and holding her still, his possession of her mouth hot and demanding, slow and promising now.

“I think,” he gasps out as he puts her down and allows her to take in her surroundings, “I want to unwrap you now.”

And she knows by the sensuous threat in his voice that their game is nowhere near up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how much more teasing do you think she can take?


	3. Chapter 3

It begins with her now-muddy boots. He kneels at her feet, head eye-level with her weakened knees and he peers up at her with deviousness in the Cheshire-cat curve of his grin. She's never seen him like this, out in full force, allowing his playful nature to mingle with the luscious sexual energy that's always boiled just beneath the surface. It's that alone that makes his torture worth it.

Worth it, but no less tormenting. The bastard takes his time, unzipping each boot with painstaking intent, his hands cupping the light curve of her calves, deliberately lingering over the back of her knees. She shudders. It's another place she despises being touched but she doesn't entirely remember why. Her body's already in overdrive, revving like the engine of his car all day, and it vibrates in anticipation. Her socks discarded and feet bare, he stands.

Circling around her in the same distantly predatory way he had in the apartment, he settles on her coat, removing it and brushing her sides and breast on the way down. She stands stock-still, frozen in his entry, and he pauses. Having dealt with the uncomfortably rain-soaked parts of her, he combs his fingers absently through her dampened hair. A hum of delight escapes her and she leans into his touch as he expertly weaves her hair into a braid, though she's not got an elastic to secure it. It's good enough, however, to throw over her shoulder and leave her neck and face fully exposed for him.

"Soft," he murmurs, running his chilled fingers over her cheekbones, "your skin is so soft."

A collective of yielding, exploratory kisses follows this statement, accompanied by exploring fingers and she needs to reciprocate, needs to show him... He captures her wrists, one in each hand.

"Ahh, no, sweetheart," he scolds, stepping back and preventing her from falling over only by holding her wrists steady. What was she doing? "Not today."

He tugs her closer, taking her mouth to his again, looming over her and using his body against her in a way that would make her nervous were it any but Castle. It's just Castle. Instead of overpowered, she feels safe. Cherished, even.

Walking backwards, he leads her to the back of the structure, to a hidden set of stairs, raw steel and narrow. His blind navigation is none-the-less confident, speaking to his intimacy with the space. When they reach the top they are confronted with a glass-top desk scattered with papers, and beyond that, a large fireplace and a door to what she can only deduce is the lone bedroom.

It's hardly a room at all; a built-in bed with dark blue-grey, unmistakably masculine dressing, an attached side table, and nothing else. It would be downright claustrophobic if not for the expanse of the bed itself and the massive window it pressed up to. Tugging her shirt from her jeans, Castle coils himself around her from behind, runs his hands underneath the tails, up her sides and she groans at the curl of his palms around her bare waist.

"We can stop at any time, you know..." he stops – why is he stopping? - and murmurs sincerely, "please, don't think you have-"

Breaking their unspoken rule, she turns her head as far back as she can, kissing him soundly, tongue begging attention against the ridge of his palate, swallowing down any more warnings. She's done backing out. She needs him. Needs this. She thinks, dramatically, that she might die if it stopped.

"Castle," his hands flex around her, keeping her close, holding her up while his mouth busies suckling at her neck and collarbones. "Don't stop."

And then his mouth, his hands, all but the press of his body – hard but restrained with infinite care – are gone. His fingers reappear in front of her face, so close she could just…

"Biter," he admonishes with a low chuckle. Slowly, the sides of his thumbs begin to stroke her face. The curve of her nose. The sharpness of her brow. He presses little circles across the hollow of her cheeks, brushes his joyful fingertips over her lips in veneration and the touch there is too intense. She can hardly breathe. He's touching her like a blind man learning her in his own language for the first time, mapping the subtleties of her face.

Kate sighs, craning her head back, giving herself over to him. Something in his manner over the past hours cements it into her mind: Castle's in charge. She's not used to that. Not used to anyone being in charge. Not in bed. Not at work. Not with her friends or the little family she has left. She's always had to be. Even when she didn't really want to be, she had no way to escape it, no choice not to have to choose. She's not entirely certain of what allowing him to touch her without reciprocating means. But he needs it, and she thinks she might, too. He's redrawing boundary lines with every stroke and press and slide of his love-callused fingertips. Rebalancing them.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, Kate," he whispers in her ear before biting the lobe and sucking on it. "Do you know how many fantasies I've had about doing this?" His lips press just beneath her ear as his deft fingers work at the buttons of her shirt. "How much I've wanted you this way, for so long?" He's doing this blind and she moves to help him, but he bats her hands away. "Never thought..." He babbles, "never thought you'd let me. Never thought we'd get here." The suck of his mouth around her vulnerable neck makes it too hard to concentrate on buttons, anyway, and soon enough the chill of the air hits her as the warm, soft linen of her shirt falls away with a sweep of his palms.

"Well, we are, aren't we?" she asks. Castle nods, his cheek brushing her temple.

She hears the rustle of him ridding himself of his sweater and undershirt, and the warm press of his unclothed chest to her back halts her breath in her lungs. Pushing her jeans to the floor at last, Castle steps back.

"Go lay on the bed," he requests. "I'll be right back."

No! She wants to shout and reach for him, but he's already ducked out of the small bedroom. She hears him run down the stairs, unzip something – his backpack, perhaps? – and fumble around downstairs. She shivers in the cold and with the arousal that's not abated a single bit, despite the lack of touch. Crossing on shaky limbs over to the king-size bed, she does what he asked and lowers her hyper-sensitive body to the bed, twitching at the feel of the textured linen against her flesh. She inhales. His scent lingers through the fresh linens, grounding her slightly. Resting on her side and staring absently out the window at the howl of the wind and rain in the trees, she waits, listening to him swear when he drops something heavy, then as he scurries around outside the bedroom.

The smell of burning wood invades her nose, wraps around her and the low din of the crackling flames nearly covers the sounds of Castle moving around. She strains to hear him. The sound of a faucet somewhere nearby, and him washing his hands, does little to bring her back to reality. She's floating, aware of every sound and movement and feeling, but somehow removed from it completely. It's as if he's put her in a state of suspension, to be broken only when he releases her.

A low groan of appreciation from the doorway makes her turn her head, watch him watch her for several long moments. The expanse of his chest is flushed, rising shallow-slow and shook, his hands flex and close again.

"Castle?"

It's the permission he evidently needed, because before she knows it, he's on her, coaxing her to scoot back, prop herself against the wall as best she can. Her legs come round his hips automatically, but he's wise to that trick and grasps her ankles, bending her at the knee to examine them carefully. She shrieks and tries to wrench herself from his grip when he mouths her ankle bone, but when he doesn't let go, she throws an arm over her face, too sensitized to watch. A fingertip runs the underside of her foot and she shudders at the unpleasant stimulation, kicks it futilely at him.

"Alright," he murmurs, "still don't like that, got it." He smiles, rewards her honesty with a kiss to the back of her knee, which she decides she does quite like, as he runs his hands up her smooth legs, stopping at the joinder of her hips to crawl up her body, cover it with his own and  _yes._

But  _no,_  he's still half-clothed and why is he still half-clothed?

Her answer comes in the form the return of his lips to hers, his insistent, slow burn of a kiss that keeps her on edge and desperate for more and tells her he'll take as much time as he wants, regardless of his state of dress. Kate makes a frustrated hiss when he sits back on his legs, bending to kiss her collarbones again, but all's forgiven when he abandons that at last in favor of her breasts.

Pulses of pleasure seep slowly through her like drip-drop coffee through a filter, tiny buzzes everywhere diffusing through her veins.

He kneads, palms, cups her breasts, lowers his face to the right, pressing open-mouthed kisses, nips and licks before repeating his attentions to its twin.

"Castle,  _please!_ " she cries, knot coiling tightly in her abdomen and deep in her untouched center. A wave of wetness pools between her legs when he nudges the lacy cup of her bra aside, sucking a darkened nipple into his mouth, grazing her with his teeth. Her fingernails rake across his scalp the moment they thrust into his thick hair, encouraging him, begging him for more, trying to pull him away all at once. He continues savoring her, worrying her tender flesh between his soft lips and the cool scratch of his teeth. When he starts on the other side, she drops out, hears herself moaning continuously.

A slow shudder of pleasure wracks her. It's not the explosive climax she's accustomed to, more a warm wave that crests and breaks gently over her, ebbing away to leave her trembling and boneless in his arms.

"Did you-" Castle starts, astonishment in his features. She nods mindlessly, stroking his hair to try and ease herself, bring her down a little, but her body can't seem to stop.

"Yessss…"

His attentions redouble, she tenses and coils tighter, hears the blood rushing in her ears and more distantly, the steady stream of cries and whispered nonsense that sounds foreign coming from her lips, but without any kind of voluntary effort. The bra, dampened by his ministrations, flies off and she whimpers at the moment of loss it takes him to shuck his jeans, boxers coming with it and at last she gets to see him in his natural state.

She can't think of a word for him besides beautiful. He is. Warm and strong and naked for her and  _hers_. For a moment, she forgets their silent pact and reaches for him, getting as far as sitting shakily up and grabbing his thigh.

Castle laughs, deep and hoarse and pleased. "Let you touch me all you want later, love," he soothes and says  _love_  as if it's the most natural synonym for her name to his tongue as he catches her hands in his, playing with them absently. His voice is hesitant when he sinks back onto the bed and pulls her in his lap like a shaking ragdoll. "But if you can… if you want to keep going…"

She wants to touch him. Badly. Wants to explore every part of him, first with her fingers, then with her mouth, just like he's been doing to her. But what he's been doing – strange and even nerve-wracking as it is – is its own reward. She doesn't have to think. Doesn't have to worry about pleasuring him, when he's so insistent she not reciprocate. All she has to do – all he wants her to do – is drink in the sensations and let him explore at his pace.

"Keep going, please," she requests at last.

Grateful wonder in his eyes, he complies, mapping invisible roads across her ribs and the planes of her abdomen and the fingers of her captured hand popped into his mouth, sucked on like sweets. She can feel another wave approaching, warm and deceptively powerful, breaking on her when he reaches her hips and holds her to him and she feels his thick length press into her thigh.

She's never felt this way before, so attuned to her own body, to every touch, to everything he's done and doing and going to do, so completely overwhelmed by it. Her panties come off at some point, they must, and he places her gently back on the bed. Without preamble, Castle pushes his tongue to her clit, sending her screaming and spiraling in one touch just like he did remotely the night before. Every potent touch becomes another rush, the feelings pelting her body first like gentle lapping at the shore, then as a crashing storm. He holds her in the undertow, drowns her in pleasure that borders on pain until she's lost track of everything besides being overwhelmed by him.

It shocks her system entirely when he becomes distracted from his unrelenting sucking of her nerves, seizing the thin wrist that's guiding a hand to his hair again. He stops its journey and instead runs his hot tongue down the thick vein that runs the way up her arm. Sharp teeth end it with a nip to the impossibly-sensitive spot inside her elbow. His warm-wet-stubble-scratchy cheek caresses the thin skin there, brushing the dove-pale underside of her breast. He kisses that too.

She's sure he's kissed a hundred places already that no one's kissed before, but that one's special and she doesn't know why but it is and at last the dam bursts open. She knows she asked him to keep touching but she can't take it any more. The day's long cycle of tension and release, ratchet and denial, promise and kept; the thought of what she almost lost; the way he's holding her to his chest and hovering above her and staring at her in fear and fascination…

"Inside me," she pleads frantically, tears threatening to fall and clogging in her throat, " _please,_  I need you, please, please, now…" the wetness stains her cheeks, she thrashes in his stilled grip, "please, Castle, make me yours, I want to be yours, I just want you, please, I love you, I just want you…"

It's the longest seconds of her life, that he continues his stare. Longer than the phone call that changed everything. Longer than being carried away as her Captain died, being held against the car and weeping with his hand over her mouth. Longer than laying in the grass losing blood.

But something snaps, all at once, and Castle murmurs a rush of apologies, punctuating them with earnest kisses to her face and lips.

"Sorry, so sorry," he shushes, "I teased you too long. So good, Kate," and finally –  _finally –_  he lines himself up against her and slides home, pushing into her grasping heat until their hips meet and he stills. Full with him, she tries desperately to control the wild pound of her heart. She balls her fists in the bedding, then into him, her nails running tracks over his back and shoulders.

"Kate, Kate," he struggles out, hooking his arms behind hers, curling around her shoulders as he begins thrusting, hot and deep and possessing. "I love you, Kate-"

She's only just slightly more in control of her body and emotions, enough to arch up into him, capture his lips and he obliges her heartily, letting her taste herself on him and drinking in her whimpers and groans with each swipe of his wicked tongue into her mouth.

Slick thighs tense and she knows she has leeway now, that his game is over - or at least put on hold - and she relishes the ability to touch, to thrust her hips upward and meet him. They establish a slow rhythm, a call and answer she thinks she could become addicted to in the deeply-penetrating grind of their bodies, the silkiness of their words in the moments they come up for air. Kate watches in awe as his eyes slide half-closed and his hair dampens like hers, as his face plays his emotions, cycling endlessly and rapidly between reverence and need and love and protectiveness and carnality.

She wants it to go on forever. But it won't. Can't. Not with the way he's built her up, it's not going to last much longer. They hold on as best they can.

Her body quivers and contracts, no part of her untouched or unloved by this man, and it crashes on her like a tsunami, slow and unstoppable and leveling her in its strength. She screams her pleasure, and the harsh nipping at her lips and the solemn promises falling from his say he's not far behind. He holds her under one last time, groaning her name and jolting and spilling into her, his release warm and nearly endless as she clings to him, violent tremors erupting on her sweat-soaked body.

Holding her to him, he rolls them onto their sides, still within her, hips still jolting against her haphazardly. Aftershocks blend one into the next and Kate sags helplessly back into his broad chest, shivering as he rubs her arms.

The world fades into heavenly, unfeeling darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, probably. Maybe two. If you're good ;) Apologies that this was uploaded twice.
> 
> Comments, questions, concerns, complaints and constructive criticisms are always welcomed and appreciated. To those of you who've reviewed anon, thank you so much, since I can't respond individually!


	4. Chapter 4

They lay on their sides some time later and he plays with her fingers, moving them this way and that as if she were an anatomical model he studies with fascination. Absently drawing patterns with his thumb on the back of her hand, he speaks up hoarsely.

"You were right," he tells her suddenly, "I had no idea."

"Feeling's mutual. I don't think, four years ago, either of us predicted this. Fantasies are one thing, but..."

"Yeah," he responds with dry humor in his voice, she feels his smile curve into her and fade away sight unseen. Something cold runs through her at that. But he makes no further movements, and she shifts again, tries to get closer if she can. His arms tighten around her reflexively as his nose buries deeper into her hair, hot exhales warming a spot on her neck.

"We should get something to eat," she says inanely after a while, wholly unmotivated to move at all to accomplish that goal. He nods his agreement and sits up just enough to hook a dark grey cable-knit throw from the end of the bed and pull it over her.

"I was up here not long ago. I think we have enough for a meal. Didn't bank on this weather," Castle glances out the window, where the storm continues to rage, wind howling and rain battering the immovable structure of the house, "thought we'd be going out, but I don't trust the bridges around here, nor my vision on the windy roads at night." That's right, it is dark out now. She's got no clue what time it is. Her father's watch is back at her apartment, and if there's a clock at all around, she hasn't seen it. Of course, she didn't get much of a chance to critique his décor while they were busy mauling each other.

He shifts away, reasonably, to go fish through his supplies, but she reaches for him and her heart seizes at the inexplicably desolate expression in his eyes. The same one she saw a flash of in her closet. She doesn't understand.

"Castle…" she starts, unable to comprehend his sudden shift in demeanor. He was fine earlier. She thought he was. He was enthusiastic, attentive, playful; incredible, really. Was she… "Did I do something?"

Castle wraps her close, her cheek pressing to his cooling chest. "No, Kate. You're extraordinary."

There's something he's not telling her. Something bothering him. As he pulls away and yanks on his boxers and jeans, she curls up into herself, small and naked on the bed.

He stops, halfway down the stairs. She hears him take a deep breath, and step by step return to the bedroom. She tries to reach for him when he sits on the edge of the bed – needs to touch, to reassure, to be reassured – but Castle shifts away.

With a flat voice, he says the thing she least wants to hear.

"I need to tell you something."

Strung together, they're perhaps the least comforting words in the English language, next to 'we're very sorry to inform you...' That's when she just knows. A part of her has for months. Things have been so quiet...

"It's about my mother's case, isn't it?"

His silence says it all.

"What did you do, Castle?" Mind reeling, Kate tries to drown out the ringing static in her ears, stave off the tide of nausea that threatens to spill from her.

"What I had to," he states resignedly. "When Montgomery decided to sacrifice himself, he called me. He called me to hold you back, and I did it, because it was the way to keep you safe. Do you know why he called me, Kate?" Castle asks sharply, his eyes pained but flashing, "Because he knew how I felt. He knew, and he knew I'd do anything – including and up to making you hate me – to keep you safe. And I did."

The writer draws a deep breath, drawing on his last reserves of strength to continue, and Kate can't do anything but sit and listen, with rising panic at the realization that she has no way out of here, not without his help. She can't leave. She's trapped here. She can't do anything.

"After Montgomery's death, I was contacted by his old friend. Montgomery had a deal, through this man, with the people who ordered your mother's death. As long as you don't push the case, they leave you alone. That deal was passed to me, and I have kept it."

"Wha... how?  _Why_? Why would you do that?" Her voice breaks into a sob. "We were so close! You've lost us a year on this case!"

"I've gained you a year of your life. They will kill you, Kate. They will kill you if you go at this blindly," Castle moves down the bed beside her, ignoring the way she curls into herself and turns away, pulls the throw tighter around her nude body. "I'm not going to let you do that. I'm not going to let them take you, for nothing."

Did he plan this? Think that sleeping with her would... she can't believe that. It's not... he wouldn't do all this just to get her to stop, would he?

"For  _nothing_?" she explodes, choosing anger rather than pain, "my mother's murder is not nothing!"

"No, it's not. It's something big, and it's part of something a hell of a lot bigger. And you will never get justice, or truth, or get to expose this... thing, for what it is, if you are in a bodybag because you played into their trap."

Opening and closing her mouth repeatedly, Kate finds no words will come out immediately. He's right. She knows he is and she hates that. There's nowhere for her to go, nowhere to run to, no way to get back to the city immediately. She's trapped.

"Are you asking me to choose?" she finally asks. She can't do it. Not like this. Not when they had it all in front of them, so close...

"Yes," he says decisively, a hard edge to his voice. He sounds far too much like a cop, and the dark edge to it sends shivers through her, "I'm asking you to choose to stay alive."

"And that means giving up on finding my mother's killer? Fuck you,  _Rick_ ," she hisses, acid dripping from every note, "Oh, I already did." She won't cry. Won't. Won't. "Was that your plan?"

"Christ, Beckett! Grow up!" Castle shouts, startling her. He's never talked to her like that.

"I didn't sleep with you to trap you, or to manipulate you, and I'm very sorry that you think that, that your mistrusting heart always jumps to the worst possible assumption. I love you. I loved you a year ago, I loved you when you died in my arms, I loved you when you left and didn't call for three fucking months. I loved you when I knew you lied to me. Fuck. I  _tried_  to leave, I  _tried_  to do what I had to, to... remove myself from you, so that I could uphold this deal easier, so that I could protect you without it hurting all the goddamn time." Vegas, right. He said he was trying to get over her... what exactly, she wonders, did she pull him back from with her call?

A deep, gloomy sigh punctuates his diatribe, but she needs to hear the rest and stays quiet, her anger and confusion stuck firmly onto the backburner for once.

"I'm not asking you to give up on the case," Castle finally says, trying and failing to keep the begging from his tone, "I'm only asking you to not run out into the line of fire and get yourself killed for it. I- if you still want me around, I want to be there when you put these dirtbags under the jail, rather than being the one to put  _you_  in the ground if you want to be another pawn in their game. You move now and they will take you out, and this case – and all the others connected to it – never gets solved."

She chances a look at him and regrets it instantly. It's laid out for her right there, written in every determined line of his face. Fear, anger, regret, stubbornness, love. Most of all, the latter. The thought of him burying her like she buried her mother and they buried Montgomery makes her sick, her empty stomach churning with angry acid.

"If you can promise me to do this right – to not run out in front of the firing squad or chase some merc down a back alley on an impulse – everything I've learned is yours. It's not solved, but... I've gotten closer, closer than where we were before it all went to hell."

Castle looks deeply into her eyes, sincerity pouring off him in a way she hasn't seen before. "And – it's important that you understand this, Kate: whether you're with me or we go back to just being partners or you banish me forever and I end up solving crimes in Cabot Cove, I'll never make this – us – a condition. Not for the evidence, not for help, not for my support," he pauses, allowing his promise to sink in, "but if you can't do that, if you want to get yourself killed, I can't be your enabler. I will not sit back and watch you die, I-" she cuts him off.

Decision made.

She seals her promise between their mouths – hers seeking and desperate for solid ground, and his unresponsive – and crawls up his body. He tastes of her still and she grasps at his face, willing him to believe her, believe she'll take the future he's offered. It's a clarity she didn't expect, but with it, her anger dissipates and all she can think of is reassuring him, making certain he understands her choice.

"Castle," she sighs, "I just want you." She's said those words to him so many times in her dreams, in fantasy, it's relief to finally say them to him aloud. She'll let him pull her back. Let the case go, altogether, if she has to. But he's not asking her to do that. He won't make her choose, if her life's not in danger. And she loves him more for that.

"Please," she begs at his lips, and he's not moved, she thinks it's time he changed that, but why isn't he responding? "Please, Castle, I want you. I don't want to... I want more to this life than that."

His clever fingers walk tentatively up her side, shoulders, back, settling at the nape of her neck. Slowly, gently, he lays back, swinging his legs onto the bed and bringing her atop him. Strong arms loop through her own, bringing her onto his chest, though not holding her down in any way. She's free to go and all she wants to do is stay.

She loses time altogether. His hands roam her body again, without intent of escalation, and he twitches under her own, allowing at last her equal search, unhurried and thorough like good explorations ought to go. Her mouth slips from his for air and her nose nestles into his neck and shoulder as he idly strokes his biceps, tracing patterns and feeling the ridges of him, an attempt to memorize.

Castle sighs, bone-deep and purged by truth, the same release she felt the night before. If pressed, she'd say she wished they'd both been truthful before, but she can't bring herself to regret doing things the way they did. They've always been a little off-center, a little out of normal order, and this was no different. She's got a million questions, but none besides this that need answers right now. He's promised her  _quid pro quo,_  after all, and he's nothing if not a man of his word. With this out in the open at last, they have a solid foundation. That's what matters. Going forward.

She strokes his shoulders, traces the shell of his often-abused ear in an altogether new (and significantly less painful) way, smiling sappily at the near purring noise he emits. She'll have to remember these things he likes, the way he's so obviously taken inventory of her likes and needs.

"Do you love me?" he asks out of the blue, small and barely audible, and her heart melts. He's  _shy_. Richard Castle, shy, and his voice so insecure. Sweet, undemanding. His commanding presence of earlier is gone, replaced by something warm and unsteady and she thinks she understands. He just needs to hear it again.

"Yes," she answers decisively, wriggling down into his grasp, as close as they can come. "I love you."

Castle combs her hair with his fingers, careful to avoid the knots that have formed, rolling the two of them onto their sides and burying his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply before speaking into her skin.

"If you do not love me I shall not be loved," he whispers, presses a ghost of his lips across her flesh that sends a tiny shock through her, "If I do not love you I shall not love."

Words won't come to her, the feeling she can't shake that they've just sealed something more permanent than a mere relationship returning in force. She reaches blindly for him, contact landing on his cheek, stroking him with the backs of her fingers. He's quoting something, but she hasn't the energy to ask fully. "Mmm?"

"Beckett. The Samuel variety." She laughs then, at the quote source, at the insanity of what they've been through in the last 24 hours, at him, at her, and he follows soon enough too, until they're both struggling for air against each others' lips. They've only just come down from it when her stomach growls loudly and the fit begins all over again, as much a release of stress and tension as at the noise.

"We really should get something to eat," Castle states at last. Kate makes a soft whining sound.

"Don' wanna," she grumps childishly, flicking his ear. "But okay."

She throws his sweater on (to his self-satisfied grin), follows him down the stairs, and sets about going through her suitcase, looking for something to wear. Grabbing her makeup kit, a simple sweater and pair of jeans, she finds her leather-trimmed undergarment set. And no others.

"Really, Castle?" she grins to where he's rummaging around in the house's small kitchen. She can't see him, nor he her, but evidently he knows exactly what she's referring to.

He calls back, "Those things have Vice written all over them."

"Yeah,  _your_ vices." When did he sneak them in there, come to think of it?

"I make no apologies."

Rolling her eyes, she traipses back upstairs and locates the bathroom on the other side of the fireplace, stopping first to stoke the fire. Rounding the corner, Kate finds the room clad predictably in concrete, stone and glass. Glancing in the mirror, she finds her hair hopelessly matted and attempts to comb through it. Lovebites blossom poppy-red across both breasts, one dotting her neck just high enough to force her to wear a turtleneck or get creative with makeup for a day or two when they go back.

Jackass.

When she emerges a few minutes later, dressed and hair in some semblance of a braid, the smell of something cooking fills the home. She finds her way to the kitchen, Castle's disappointingly-clothed back is turned to her as he hovers over the cooktop, pouring off water from the gnocchi that now sizzles in a pan with some kind of sauce, peas, and pancetta. He jumps a bit when her arms wrap him from behind, hitching under his arms and securing around his shoulders. Pressing her cheek to his back, she finds herself quite unwilling to stop touching him.

"Hey," Kate murmurs as she inhales the delicious scent of dinner.

"Hey, yourself," his even voice comes as he twists in her grasp to press a kiss to her forehead, looking her over with appreciation before turning back to his task of spooning the gnocchi into one large bowl, garnishing it with black pepper and cheese.

He wriggles from her embrace brandishing a single spoon and a single fork.

"Pick your weapon," Castle grins. For a man with borderline-excessive tastes (if the loft in the city is to be believed as a product of his taste), she finds it unexpectedly hilarious that he appears to have only one set of silverware, one pan, one bowl here. No visible dishwasher, either. She gathers that he does not often entertain.

"What is this, Thoreau's cabin?" Kate teases, selecting the fork none the less. Castle shrugs, laying an arm across her shoulders while walking them through to the large living space.

"You're the first person's seen this place in the years I've had it, architect and builders aside," he says, sitting carefully in a large leather chair that they both fit in quite comfortably and digesting the idea that Castle had this place built and it's likely a product of his imagination as much as Nikki or Rook or Derrick Storm is, "though I like to think it's not quite as basic as Walden."

"Not even Alexis?" Castle shakes his head.

"No. I don't get up here often, but when I do, it's to write – usually – and to remove myself from all possible distractions. Don't think Alexis even knows this place exists."

She's flattered to have been invited into his sanctuary, and more than a little grateful in hindsight he's brought her here rather than the Hamptons. Though she's sure they'll get there eventually, it's a significant relief to be somewhere less… baggage-laden, given the summer of two years ago.

"It's fantastic," at last looking around, she admires the space. Simple, unmistakably masculine, and elegant all at once. Spearing a gnocchi and popping it in her mouth, her eyes slide closed. Food always tastes good when one is hungry, but this is truly delightful, "and so is this!"

"Enjoy it, last thing we've got until morning," Castle remarks, "besides coffee. No promises on how good it is, but it'll keep you human until we can get into town."

"Hmmm," she snuggles closer, relishing his company, thinking about what they'll do when they get back to the city. She'll want to look over whatever he's found on the case, yes, but surprisingly, she's less concerned about that. If he's not chomping at the bit now that she knows, it's likely not time-sensitive information. He said they can't go anywhere with it right now. Thus, she resigns herself on that front and vows to think no more of it than necessary in the next two days. Her main concern is Lanie. The boys. Alexis. Martha. Her father.

"Think we should tell them right away when we get back?" her question comes out lazily, "or do we want to play with them a bit?"

Castle takes advantage of her distraction and scoops a generous amount of pancetta for himself.

"Duh," he says after swallowing, "play with them. I know for a fact Ryan and Esposito have a pool going on, and half the precinct with them."

"Oh? And how do you know this?" Her eyes narrow playfully at him.

"I lost money on that bet more than three years ago," he admits. "I know, I'm sorry; cocky son-of-a-bitch. I thought for sure you'd succumb to my winning charms and put in $100. Ryan's winning, by the way. His bet from day one was that it'd take 5 years and he's been taking everyone's money little by little for years. Espo said six months initially and has gradually increased his estimates – he keeps losing, of course – and most of the rest of the precinct was somewhere between weeks and months at the beginning."

Beckett snorts. She knew about the bet – via Lanie, whose frequent pushing was at least partially motivated by her own stakes in it – and she can't even find it in her to be annoyed by it. Not that he doesn't get his ear twisted for his part in it, while she expertly stabs the rest of the pancetta from the dish. They finish the food off in silence, simply enjoying the meal and each other.

"I think we should tell my mother and Alexis, and probably your father, too," Castle says seriously as he rises to clear the dish and she follows him. "In case..."

"Yeah," Kate agrees faintly. "We don't want them thinking we're still on the outs, or whatever, if something happens."

Castle says nothing, just nods his head and pulls her to his side, kissing her hair. He washes and she dries, and moves to put the dish in the lone cupboard above, only to discover a full set of bowls, plates and flatware for at least four people. Giving Castle a withering look, she puts it back with its set just the same, breaking into a smile and kissing him soundly for his sheepish little-boy look. God, they're both turning into saps. Stupid, sexy, saps. She quite likes that alliteration.

"Bath, and bed?" he questions, as if still unsure of what liberties he's allowed, despite all that she's let him do and as much control as she's allowed him thus far. Reassuring him, she twines her fingers through his, leading him back toward the stairs much in the same way he led her earlier.

"Sounds like a plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go to bring this thing full circle. Comments, questions, concerns, complaints or constructive criticisms? Review ALL the things!


	5. Chapter 5

Soaking in the tepid water with Castle at her back, Kate is boneless and malleable. Thick fingers, tender in their pursuit, scrape across her scalp, massaging in an herbal shampoo that leaves her skin tingling pleasantly. She floats, pleasantly clean, her mouth still tingling from the surreal experience of brushing her teeth next to her partner.

Pushing her up lightly and tipping her head back, he rinses her hair with water from cupped hands. When his hands start roaming her again, she flips herself.

"My turn," she states, wriggling against him in a way that makes his eyes go dark and his breathing pick up slightly. "Tell me things."

Castle's mouth quirks, "what kind of things?"

She combs her hands through his steam-dampened locks, paying special attention to his ears, which he definitely seems to enjoy being touched (though not twisted). Big puppy. The writer's eyes slide shut in pleasure, a light groan escaping him as she finds a spot he very clearly likes at the base of his skull.

"What you like."

Castle hums in contentment. "That, for starters. I like that. Hell, Kate; anything that involves you touching me, I like it. Simple mind, simple pleasures, you know."

"Nope," she warns cheerfully, "not getting off that easy."

Devilish grin appearing on his face, Castle bucks his hips into hers, sloshing a bit of water over the side of the tub.

"I beg to differ, I get off quite easy."

Kate rolls her eyes. He's good at distraction, but he'll have to be cooperative if he wants his reward. It strikes her not for the first time that he manages to talk so much while actually saying next to nothing at all sometimes, and that for his millions of words in print, he trades almost exclusively in action where it counts.

But she's still intent on making him tell her. He's got a debt, and she intends to collect.

"Come on, Castle. Quid pro quo."

Her new lover sighs, spinning her again in his arms and turning on the hot water to reheat the bath. Perhaps it's easier for him to tell her this way, held near immobile in his arms and facing away, like it was easy for her only when he was on the phone. After their confrontation earlier, maybe he needs it to be easy. Nuzzling her cheek with his nose and resting his chin on her shoulder, he answers.

"I have this knot at the base of my spine, comes up when I've been writing too long, regardless of position." She encourages him to keep going, stroking the long muscles of his calves either side her. "I like hard pressure – almost pain – there. I like your hands in my hair."

"Mmm. What else?"

"Well, I meant what I said. I'm a simple man. Not quite as sensitive as you. I like quality, of course, and I'll fidget all day in a bad sweater, but besides that… not too complicated over here."

Kate frowns. He's being evasive again, and she doesn't think he intends to be. It's just as natural a state for him as for her.

"When do you feel your best?" she asks, changing tactics.

Castle remains quiet for a good stretch, idly rubbing soapy circles over her shoulders and arms. "Physically? This is about as good as it gets," he gives her an extra squeeze. "Mentally? At work," he answers at last, as if the answer quite bothers him. "I don't have to perform there, not in the way of putting on an act, nor do I have to watch myself as much as I do at home, around Alexis and even my mother. I'm here to entertain  _and_  inform!" Kate groans at his self-assessment of his role at the precinct, as true as it may be. Just when the more cynical side of her says they could do with a little less entertaining and a little more informing, she remembers the terrible feeling of something being wrong, in the hanging days since the bombing, when his wild theories turned to snide commentary. Turning her head to push her nose into his jaw, she asks him silently to continue, thanks him in the way she knows how for being what he is.

"My mind is always working, with you and the boys. I don't get bored. It's worthy, what we do, what I get to be a part of; even help, sometimes. Besides," he pauses, pecking her on the temple, "I get to bug you all day," she elbows his side lightly and he chuckles into her neck.

"Were you going to leave?" It's not what she meant to ask – not where she wanted this discussion to go at all – but she's so relaxed that it wasn't until it was already out there that she remembered to censor. It's been on her mind, what she interrupted with her call.

He stiffens, straps one large arm around her as if to contain her in a rollercoaster's car. As if she'd escape now. As if she'd want to.

"No. Not immediately. I was… when I came back, I was going to try dating again, try maybe putting myself to use – or maybe making a nuisance of myself – by occasionally venturing into another department, but no. I would miss you, as much as I hated that. Ryan and Esposito too. They're among the only real friends I have, and I hoped that by moving on in other aspects of my life, we could become simply friends as well in time, to where it wouldn't hurt to be around you so much."

Snuggling further into his chest, she waits. His arms tighten around her, an action she'd find confining and panic-inducing were it anyone else. Instead, safety and contentment are hers alone. He seems to need it anyway. She wonders if, in time and with trust built, he'll let go of this need to hold her to him, to shape her and play with her. She wonders if she wants him to.

"I don't know that I'd ever get over it," Castle admits quietly, a watery murmur, barely a rumble in his chest. "I tried to. Maybe I'd have eventually left, or one of us would do something that pulled up a fight, and we'd disintegrate from pure disappointment."

Suddenly, she doesn't want to know any more. She knows the important things, and this is supposed to be happy. She doesn't want to hear his theories of what might have happened that would end them, or end in them hating each other. Turning, she sits up on her calves and allows herself full view of her man. Reassuring him with the light brush of her lips against his, Kate sets about taking the promised reciprocity to a new level. If he can't verbalize his likes and wants, she'll have to figure them out in other ways.

Call it benign interrogation.

Pushing the lever to drain the tub, Kate stands unsteadily, helping her partner to his feet and stepping into the attached shower stall, turning on the cool water and smirking as she appreciates him, his body at full attention.

"Come here," she requests, and Castle complies eagerly, stepping under the spray and watching with amusement as she removes the near-empty shampoo bottle from the bath and lathering her hands with a generous dollop.

Only, she finds she can't quite reach the top of his head comfortably this way. Castle's boyish grin says he knows exactly what her problem is, and he evades her for a moment longer, childishly snapping a wet washcloth at her before dutifully bowing his head and letting her work. His hands still grip at her, not to hurt but enough to prevent her from moving far, but he groans with appreciation at having his hair washed, with rather rougher pressure than she herself would like. She files it away.

Rinsing his hair with an economy of touch that makes him scowl, she washes the last of the soap from the bath from both of them and shuts the water off. When Castle makes to grab a towel, she bats his hand away.

"No," she scolds lightly, "my turn, remember?" He smiles sheepishly and humors her, bending over again to allow her to ruffle his hair to rid it of excess water. Giving his well-shaped ass a playful smack, she reminds him. "Behave."

"Never," the writer counters, but allows her to continue none-the-less.

Castle's eyes follow her every move. He stands stock still and stiffens, here and there, as she drags the towel across his body slowly. Racing a droplet of water from the indentation in his chest – nearly the same place as the one in hers, she notes with interest, though hers was rather less natural – she traces fractal patterns randomly across his body, drying the wet tracks made by the water drops. Castle inhales deeply as if to steady himself and calm his nerves.

"If you want to stop, please, tell me," she says earnestly. For all his preoccupation with touching things, he certainly doesn't seem to like this. She wants to explore, but not to make him uncomfortable.

"No," Castle shakes his head, emphasizing his point, "I do like it. Really," he adds, seeing her look of disbelief. "It's just been a long time."

She wonders what he means by that. He implied earlier – and she more or less knew it anyway – that he's not been in a relationship in some time, but just how far back does he mean? She wonders if he's always been the giver in his relationships, refusing equal reciprocity, or just never having it offered. It's an unexpectedly uncomfortable thought, but reciprocal affection, she thinks uncharitably, doesn't jive with what little she knows of either Gina or Meredith, at least from her small interactions with them and the way he talks. Kyra, maybe. It doesn't sit well with her. He's not mentioned any other significant, long-term relationships, and his difficult accepting this even with her says he's certainly not comfortable enough to allow this under circumstances any less than implicit trust. If her assumptions about Gina and Meredith ring true, he's perhaps gone twenty years without allowing or being offered this kind of attention. She shakes herself a bit. That was then. This is now.

Extracting herself from his grasp, Kate moves to his broad back, taking her time drying his skin and rubbing the muscles in his shoulders and neck. She finds herself admiring the shadowy pillar of his spine, pressing hot, openmouthed kisses to his vertebrae the way he'd done to her. The tiny muscles just underneath his skin jump and twitch like animal flesh in a way that here – unhurried and given full licence – becomes endlessly fascinating.

"Beautiful," she tells him, his only answer a return to shyness in his eyes and a run of his twitchy fingers through his hair.

Growing bolder, she lets her hands roam over him, watching intently and mentally cataloging his responses. The way he inhales sharply when she traces a nail around a nipple. The way he squirms with discomfort but still allows it when she curls her fingers around his throat, gently rubbing his Adam's apple before each high chieftan's cheekbone gets its own attention and he sighs in contentment, the care of a child cradling a sparrow in her touch. Castle's darkened eyes close nearly all the way as she slides a fleshy fingertip down the strong slope of his nose.

She's beginning to understand why this was such a necessity for him. All her nerves lick at her with desire, but she's fully able to control her responses, able to stamp the compulsion to rush and take and release in favor of the most thorough pursuit of knowledge.

The soft bow of his lips capture her finger as it traces them, and she stops any admonishment she may have had at the innocent look in his eyes, the playful quirk of his mouth. Another compelling bit of information, one that clicks into place with patchwork memories of him biting his knuckles when she's said something particularly stimulating; sucking bits of hard candy on stakeouts; the way he keeps his coffee mug to his lips long after each sip when he's stressed or can't figure something out; his occasional (and disturbing) tendency to taste substances at crime scenes all speak to a bit of an oral fixation. Her left hand smoothes circles on his chest. He bites her captive fingertip softly, releasing her after a time without further intrusion on her expedition.

Shivering in the cold of the bathroom and with the lingering dampness of her hair, Kate decides it's time for a change of venue. Without an exchange of needless words, she squeezes his hand, urging him to follow, and he does. Stoking the fire again on the way, she leads him back to the bedroom and he follows obediently behind, refusing to let her fingers go.

"Lay down," Kate requests, "on your back, please." He does so, though he looks rather wary, but ultimately trusting in a way she finds overwhelming. Shushing him indistinctly, she reassures him. "Soon."

She starts at his ankles, stroking and petting him up his calves, pressure growing stronger as she reaches his thighs, thumbs kneading into the prominent muscles there, stopping only to repay his earlier favor and pay attention to the back of each knee, finding unanticipated joy in his writhing. Her own body shudders, warming itself back up with the expectation of round two, on sight of his obvious appreciation of her attentions. Soon. Even if he can hold out, she can't.

A sound resembling a yelp escapes him the instant her lips meet his sensitive shaft, but he makes no indication to remove her. Nibbling her way down, she distantly hears him groaning and keening almost continuously, tastes her first hint of him when she licks a wet stripe up the underside of his shaft and pops his leaking head in her mouth. Salty more than sweet, and something pleasantly mild, just like the rest of him.

She purrs in appreciation, the vibrations sending his hips into action despite his clear restraint of his own reaction. The urge he can't completely quell to thrust produces a slight rocking that she finds easy to adjust to, moving with him now up and down the thick column of his length. When she hollows out her cheeks and sucks, the reaction is instant and attention-grabbing. His fingers thrust impulsively into her hair, grabbing a handful and stilling her, pulling him from her wet suction.

"Fuck," he swears thickly, his voice a shadowy combination of lust and love and frustration tinged with uncertainty. Discomfort, she speculates, at not being in full control of this encounter. She takes him partway in her mouth again, swirling her tongue around him suggestive of a screw.

"No, Kate," she stops immediately, dropping him from her mouth with a parting kiss.

His restlessness turns to impatience when she picks up his hand, and impatience turns to unbearable yearning written in every twitch of his body, in the expression torn between lust and unfocused, frustrated energy when her tongue traces the deepest line running through his weathered palm. Thick fingers flex powerfully, his tell giving him away.

Castle growls and she knows he's had enough. "Kiss me?" she asks sweetly, sitting back on her legs and allowing him up to kneel facing her. Immediately groping around his chest and smiling wickedly when she hears his sharp intake at the scratch of her fingernails, she pouts. He obliges her none-the-less, kissing her and swirling his tongue around hers as if begging. Robust arms wind around her, pulling their bodies flush together. A stab of need clenches the muscles in her abdomen, pleasure spreading through her warmly, spiking up when the writer bucks his hips against hers, his tip dragging through her slit and hitting her swollen bundle of nerves.

"So wet," he whispers to her, voice hoarse and intense as he drags his fingers through her too, circling her tight nerves and pushing her to the edge of the swirling pool of liquid heat before bringing his soaking digits back to his mouth – oral fixation, she remembers – and sucking, groaning and then crashing his lips back to hers. The lingering flavor of him mixes beautifully with hers. "Delicious."

The blood rushes in her ears, pulses in her lips fused to his and he surely feels it, feels her whole body quake when he fills her, mouth falling away from his and dropping to his shoulder. Hot and deep, she's choked with pleasure, being held on the edge. It's almost too much. She cries out, half encouraging and half sobbing.

"Let me hear you," he encourages. She lets out a needy whine, meeting his thrusts, determined to keep some degree of control and rolling her hips side to side a little. The answering slew of noises says he's just as close as she is. Roughly, she pushes him on his back again, momentary shock flickering across his face in the low light and turning to amusement as she starts riding him in earnest.

His hands brace her lower back and anchor her in touch, ensuring she can't move far, guiding her hips to roll on him, to meet each slow thrust. Hers steady herself on his breastbone and tangle in his hair. Castle groans in appreciation when she shows him what she's learned, rubbing small circles at the base of his skull.

Back arching, she throws her head back as he thrusts up into her, rearranging his legs so that he can pull her to his chest, brushing her nerves on each stroke and hitting the spot that makes her body jolt around him again and again. He seeks her neck, gathering her closer still to him so that he can suckle her pulse and nip along the sharpened line of her jaw.

"Let me hear you," he growls out urgent and undone, and a deepened thrust in combination with a bite to her lips is all it takes for her to spiral out into pleasure, his name torn from her voice box over and over, as if it's all she can manage to say at all. He's in no better state, reduced to low constant growling and a chant of her own name.

Continuous aftershocks crash over her, leaving her shaking as he finds his release in her rhythmically clenching body. Shoving a hand between them, he presses two fingers to her oversensitive nerves, drawing a last scream of pleasure from her as she drops her cheek to his shoulder again, panting heavily. A final jerk of his hips and a responding clench of her body around him draws the last of his release, leaving her feeling warm from the inside out.

His heart beats against her breast, and hers against his, haphazard rhythms synchronizing as they come down and sag against each other for support. His breathing slowly evens, and with a sigh of regret, they separate. Castle doesn't tolerate that long, wriggling underneath the covers and laying back, allowing her to find a comfortable position on her side. Vaguely, she feels him repeat his ritual of earlier, coming through her hair with his fingers and fashioning what he can reach into a braid, pushing it out of the way of her face. Cheek pressed against his chest and her shoulders cradled in his arm, she lets him pull the covers over them and drifts away, mind blank of anything except the man she loves, her always, and pleasant thoughts of what the rest of the long weekend will bring.

* * *

Castle watches her sleep as long as he can, reaching blindly behind him to turn off the lamp, letting only the thin threads of moonlight through the darkened, heavy clouds and sheets of falling rain outside light her exquisite, untroubled face. But their day has been long and intensely truthful, the purging of their old life and the former definitions of them an exhausting business. His eyes grow heavier and heavier, and finally he can keep them open no longer.

His last thought as he pulls the covers further up over his shoulders and pulls Kate's smaller form - still occasionally trembling with either cold or pleasure - closer, is neither of what was almost lost, nor of what might have been. It's not of what he tried and couldn't forget and how he was a fool for thinking he could. His last thought is not of how they'll tell first their families, then their friends, or the consequences for both of them when they do. Let that storm come.

His last thought is that he's never, ever letting go of her now. His last thought is only of tomorrow, and the long-awaited glow of forever on the horizon that's now tangibly and truthfully in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done. This went a very different direction than I hoped, but hopefully it's satisfyingly full-circle as promised. Thank you all for reading & reviewing.

**Author's Note:**

> All thanks to hheath541 for the idea of Castle choosing for her, and the push this needed to see the light of day!


End file.
